


Take It Easy (Love Nothing)

by ahegaokin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha!hannibal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta!Alana, Bottom!Will, Discussion of Abortion, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, M/M, Manipulation, Omega Verse, Omega!will, Pregnancy, Unhealthy Relationships, some Jack/Will if you grab a microscope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6024117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahegaokin/pseuds/ahegaokin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>By merit of being you, Will Graham, you are manipulative. Much more so than you give yourself credit for.</i> </p><p>Or how Will finds that one man's trash can indeed be another man's treasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so this is a reposted, rewritten version of a story i wrote. i removed it, then got around to revamping the first chapter because a lot of people (including me) ended up really liking it! so, yeah. it’s just a oneshot rn, i may add on, but i won’t make any promises.
> 
> EDIT: looks like i'll be working on this very slowly, but steadily. the first chapter is heavy in wilana, **but hannigram comes soon** so just be patient! 
> 
> my rules for omegaverse are as follows: 
> 
> **primary genders** are the castes, either alpha, beta, or omega. **secondary genders** include and are not limited to male, female, genderfluid, and nonbinary. **primary genders determine genitalia** , with omegas having vaginas/cervixes/ovaries, and alphas having penises/testicles. betas are a grab bag, sometimes they can be intersex! 
> 
> (if you're having trouble understanding that's absolutely a reflection on me as a writer so please **let me know** so i can make everything as clear and pleasant to read as possible!)
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated!

Will’s burning up inside, fire licking at every inch of him, scalding his skin so he flushes pink. Warmth pools molten hot in his gut, between his thighs, and every touch is a point of cool relief. Every press of Alana’s fingers is so acutely _good_ it’s almost painful, exactly what he needs. 

He squirms and writhes his sweating, shivering body against the sheets. He twines them around his hands, whining for her. She drags her fingers over his pretty, wet mouth, murmuring praise as their bodies grind and touch everywhere but where he needs it most. 

Even though they’ve been fucking around for a while now she’s made it clear that she can’t date him because he’s damaged, and so is she, but he’s got it worse. 

Sometimes Will thinks she doesn’t even see him as a whole person, just a tangle of jagged, messed up parts pieced together, a pretty thing to play with and dissect—someone with too much baggage to take out and treat right but not enough baggage not to fuck senseless in the backseat of his car, or over the dining room table, or in his bed while he aches through the first dredges of his heat. 

Alana respects him, maybe even admires him for his work, but Will knows that she doesn’t see a hundred percent of him. 

She sinks her fingers into his cunt—

“ _Yes._ ”

—he arches up and nearly screams—it’s so good it _hurts_ and he needs her rough, right now. He aches for her even as she stretches him. Her fingers aren’t enough. He plays with her cock, stroking blindly between her legs as she curls her fingers inside him— _curls_ and he sees white and stars and he comes for the first time, sleek with sweat and panting. 

“God—” His mouth curls around the word, brow furrowing and chest flushing as he clenches and flutters around her fingers. 

Alana used to urge them both to stop, half-heartedly and usually after Will’s gotten his, quote “gorgeous, perfect”, mouth around her and sucked her off sloppy and quick. She used to say it (more to herself, like she was indulging in an extra slice of cake) fucking him slowly, but deeply over the counter in her home while Will would time his breathing and play with his clit until he came so hard he’d black out. 

The keywords are “used to”, at least to Will, and he notes that she has no objections this time around as she turns him over into lordosis. She’s a beta (he’s had to learn to stop saying “only a beta”, because that has all sorts of betaphobic implications, and he’s bisexual anyway so her primary gender doesn’t matter at all to him, clearly). She still treats him well (in the bedroom, outside of it she’s pleasantly detached), so he doesn’t complain. 

He wails when she flicks her tongue along his ass—because that’s shockingly dirty, even for them. She tongues the pucker and he can’t think, another rush of heat washes over him, she sticks two fingers inside him and thumbs his clit and he’s gone—he’s coming again, muffling his shout into the sweat-damp pillows. His hair is curling against his forehead, chest heaving and stomach twitching as he comes down from his second orgasm. 

Alana is smug (she has a manageable complex about being a beta). Will thinks, maybe, fucking him is a way for her to prove to herself and anyone with a sense of smell that she _is_ good enough—at least, satisfying sexually. That’s one theory he has about their coupling. One out of a hundred or so. 

Alana’s already smart, already beautiful, she has to excel at this, at managing him, if she tries it.  
He’s boneless as she maneuvers him, pushes his thighs wider so she can settle between them. Will’s slipped into a pleasant heat-haze, grunting and murmuring as she grinds against him from behind. He’s already stretched, and his heat-addled brain can’t process _why_ Alana’s not just giving it to him hard and deep and fast and _knotting_ —

No, not knotting. His brain is disappointed, but his body will take her in away way she’ll have him. 

Her eyes on him are clinical, and he knows this even with his face pushed into the pillows because her hands on him are the same. She touches one way for a moment, waits for his reaction, switches to another touch, then another, until he’s gnawing at his pillows in frustration. 

“Alana—” Another intoxicating wave of heat rushes over him, makes him so wet that the first press of her inside him is _slick_ , with barely any drag. The stretch, the pressure is unbearably sweet, exactly what he needs. He could come just from this, he realizes, giddy. There’s no swelling knot at the base, but she’s decently thick, and she knows how to fuck him. When she exhales over the back of his neck Will shudders. 

“Alana, please.” 

His voice is wrecked, trembly and cracking, but she does it—she holds his wrists over his head and fucks him slowly but insistently. She keeps a frustratingly even pace, even as he’s writhing and shaking and _gushing_ through his third orgasm. It’s never been this intense before, it’s never been this _intimate_ because it’s never been his heat before. 

Does this mean the same thing to her? 

Will doubts it. 

She starts to jackrabbit into him—hard, short, _good_ thrusts—and she stills and groans and he feels a rush of warmth inside him. She drapes herself over his back as the cloud of heat abates like a rolling storm, clouds dark, but in the distance. The autumn day is cooling off, sun sinking below the horizon, blowing chilled air into the dark house as they rest, sticky, one on top of the other. 

She rolls off of him and Will realizes he’s embarrassingly wet with sweat and drool and tears and come, and he _needs_ again. The next rush of warmth is at least half embarrassment. As she stands to get him water, food, he plays with himself again, carefully rubbing his sensitive clit. Watching her, watching her so intently with his eyes wide and dark and full of adoration and lust and need. 

Her returning look is all soft pity ( _the looks she saves for victims that sit in square dim rooms with puffy eyes and horrible, horrible stories to share, but he mustn't think about that, not now—_ ). 

She’s so beautiful with her sleek, pale body, dotted with dark moles, dimples, freckles. She’s decently muscled, but still soft. Flushed from their frantic sex, shiny with slick wetness, even in the low light. She wets her lips, Will wants them between his legs. It could be because Will is so keyed up already, but his next orgasm comes quickly, in a rush of shivers. 

“You barely need my help,” she teases once she returns, kneeling on the edge of the bed. Will lies limp, legs spread, breathing hard. He prepared some things beforehand, little plates of food, bottles of water, emergency numbers written out clearly and in big numbers. Heats can be grueling, even dangerous, and he’s had to do so many on his own already—he knows what to do. He hums at the food, half-interested. 

“Say _ah_.” 

She feeds him, running her fingers along his flushed lips. He’s the picture of perfect omegahood, heat-addled to the point of near silence being fed, pliant and still damp with every fluid under the sun. He practically purrs around her fingers, crunching contentedly. Under the warmth he can’t help but notice how she’s looking at him in the dark. 

The same as ever. He shudders. 

***

Their very first hookup was a direct result of a case—too much tension, too much time spent together, Will slipping too deeply into a mental health valley (he affectionately referred to them as trenches, like the Marianas and no one thought that was funny except for him), maybe he lowest he’s ever been in. He wasn’t eating, or sleeping, or opening up to Lecter, Jack, nobody. 

Nobody except Alana. 

Another theory Will has about their coupling is that he guilted her into bed with his big, sad eyes and passive suicidal tendencies and wry smiles and along the way warped her offerings of kinship and company into something else. He, after all, does have the arsenal to become a very skilled manipulator, what with dealing with psychopaths day in and day out. 

He hashes that theory pretty quickly because Alana’s always been operating under kindness and pleasant professionalism—at least she is until one day over coffee he’s looking at her with bags under his eyes and trembling hands from the nightmares and the painkillers and she’s kissing him. She’s kissing him with her soft lips and peach lip balm and it almost doesn’t seem real. But he closes his dry eyes and exhales and she’s pressing, insistently, curiously against Will’s mouth. 

The first time she pulls away from him it’s like ripping a band-aid—or tearing off duct tape, something equally slow and painful and lasting. She says they shouldn’t, they’re friends, they’re colleges, she reiterates the “professional curiosity”, but it happens again. The next thing he knows they’re grinding against the counter in her kitchen with their clothes on until he reaches a frustrating climax. 

After a month of that he almost stops feeling guilty about it. It never happens where either of them can get caught, which is probably a great relief to Alana. One time they ride back to his place with Will dozing in the backseat, and they sneak away from the barking, leaping dogs to have clothes-on, sleepy sex on top of the sheets. 

It leaves him aching so deeply and pleasantly that he doesn’t care to dissect the bullshit excuse she tries to feed him about leaving. 

Will doesn’t want to poke at it because he wants it to happen again, he wants _her_ again. He doesn’t want to ruin their frighteningly tentative relationship, delicate as a spider’s web strung between two branches, flexing in the wind. The slightest gust of wind could tear what they have to shreds. 

The gust comes like this: 

Will’s up for the first time in hours, sore and licking his dry mouth. He doesn’t look like he feels—stubble, and bags under his eyes, blown pupils, chapped lips. He grimaces at his reflection in the bathroom. He checks behind the mirror for a toothbrush, shaving cream. 

He feels incredible, recounting each time Alana’s fingers touched him here or there—never leaving a bruise behind—until he’s washing up, watching cream slide down the drain and reaching behind the mirror again. Fear, cold and stiff wraps around his heart while the guilt constrains his throat and together they’re an awful beast trying to kill Will. 

He stares as his wide-eyed freshly shaven expression in the mirror for a long time because _he forgot his fucking birth control_. 

He wipes his sweaty hands on his pajamas and braces himself against the porcelain before stepping back into his room, voice tight. 

“Alana, I-I forgot a few days—” he blurts. Taking his birth control has always been a spotty, on-off thing for him anyway, because he’s never taken them for actual birth control. No one’s been fucking him—well, except Alana. 

She looks up from her idle reading, blue eyes widening, brows drawing down into not-quite-shock, not-quite-anger. 

Will says it again, ashamed that his voice is shaking. “I forgot a few days, I-I never meant to, I didn’t think you’d be spending my heat with me, I—” 

“You haven’t been taking birth control.” She says it so flatly, almost annoyed, like a disappointed mother and that’s fucked up, that’s fucked up to think because he _loves_ her (no, no maybe not love, maybe just the hormone addled ramblings of his brain in the middle of heat) and she’s talking down to him like he’s a child, a toddler that’s pushed his food off his high chair. He grimaces. 

When he doesn’t answer she nearly sucks her teeth and makes a motion to stand. That jump starts his voice again. 

“When I stopped taking suppressants I stopped taking these out of habit, I’m sorry, I didn’t do it on purpose, Alana—just let me explain.” 

But she’s still moving to dress herself, pulling her pants over her delicately scratched legs (where he held on and groaned and she rotated her hips in firm circles) and he still realizes, embarrassingly enough, he still _needs_. Even as she’s leaving his stupid, hungry body still wants her.

The omega part of his brain free from logic is sending him spiraling into an anxiety attack because he’s going to be left alone in his nest, his mate—his love, she’s leaving and he’ll be alone and he’ll have to _burn_ alone. 

“It was a mistake,” he says, firmer. 

Alana says, “This was reckless.” 

And she’s not angry, not really, just disappointed, tired. Will can hear everything in her voice and feel it compounded on top of him and he realizes something, or rather it comes to him like a slap in the goddamn face. 

She’s been looking for a reason to leave.

He sinks deeper into an animal panic, curling his hands by his sides to keep from reaching for her because he’s pathetic, he knows he’s pathetic, but he doesn’t need to show her what she already knows. She keeps dressing herself and he breaks out into a cold sweat, thinking of anything to get (guilt) her back into his arms. 

This is exactly what she was talking about when she said they shouldn’t, they should have _never_ because he’s not right, messed up, something’s wrong—but he doesn’t care. She’s leaving, she’s leaving and he’ll do anything, anything—he knows it’s because he’s in heat that he’s panicking so fiercely, because he doesn’t want to be alone, please 

_please don’t leave him alone_. 

His pleading has descended into disjointed explanations, excuses—he can see the relief in her shoulders the further she gets from the warm den of his room. The burden that he is has been lifted from her, and all because of a _reckless_ mistake. The dogs bark and leap at her feet, trailing behind her as she pulls her jacket over her shoulders in little jerks. They sniff her feet, her lap, yipping and begging for attention, food, affection. 

For a moment, Will feels like one of them, watching her leave, whimpering behind her as she leaves and doesn’t bother to look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got the confidence to keep posting! here’s to a more regular schedule \o/ 
> 
> note the tags please! 
> 
> new terms for this chapter! a **sire** is any person that gets the baby goo up there. a **bearer** is any lucky individual that gets to carry the little thing around for forty weeks. 
> 
> vomit/emetophobia warning for this chapter as well. 
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated!

Doctor Lecter’s office smells like something Will can’t afford, rich and refined. It’s painted all deep reds and browns like blood and it’s warm, cozy, the way a nest should feel. It’s comforting to walk into because Virginia in September had two settings—sweltering and drenched. 

Today, it’s the latter, and the raindrops are fat and cold, they leave the skin tingling and the bones chilled. Will steps inside and takes off his coat, curls sticking to his forehead. 

He’s glad the room comforts because Doctor Lecter has the unfortunate ability to _discomfort_ , which Will is sure is no fault of his own. He’s about as thoroughbred (Will blames his incomplete heat for letting that archaic description cross his mind) as alphas get, at least he smells that way. Will’s sure not a drop of any other caste’s blood has touched Hannibal’s entire bloodline, because Hannibal is _strong_ and _gentle_ and he can _provide_ for Will— 

He can’t be blamed for wanting!

He’s an unclaimed omega driven out of his nest before his heat could wind to a close—and when he thinks it like that to himself he sounds rather pathetic. 

There was just no way Will could be expected to stay in that house with Alana’s smell on every sheet, every memory of her touch _aching_ him through each torturous cycle. 

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Will murmurs, brushing his hair back. It sticks in a curly coif. He hands his soggy coat to Doctor Lecter, who’s standing wide and straight-backed in his doorway, ushering Will inside. 

Usually, he would take the customary place wandering along the upper walkway, fingering the books in languages he hasn’t quite placed, but his heat’s left him drained in a way where the chaise looks far more comfortable. He practically curls up on the chocolate leather and _purrs_ , wet shoes and all. 

“Of course not. I can always make time for a friend.” 

Doctor Lecter’s very slight lisp makes him sound friendly where his stature or profession or caste would leave anyone feeling threatened. Will likes to think he’s moved past the compulsory stab of fear that comes with unfamiliar alphas, considering he’s not a child, but alas. He rolls his neck on the chaise, humming. 

Hannibal hangs Will’s coat on the hangar and moves (very slowly, very quietly, and Will’s only aware of his size when they’re standing near each other, otherwise Hannibal moves like he’s as light as air, and he thinks that’s what keeps him...not afraid, but wary, even after all this time) to his desk. 

“Your heat is not quite finished,” Doctor Lecter offers conversationally. He neatens things on his desk. There’s a dynamic drawing of an arching woman on off-white paper. Will grimaces, an ugly little thing. 

“No, not exactly. I wasn’t as...comfortable in my nest this time around.” It’s a terrible lie, and they both know it. 

Hannibal straightens a bit to broaden his shoulders, which is an act of purposeful alpha posturing, and it’s not as annoying with Will being so keyed up and hungry for any sort of attention (he has self control, sure, but his eyes are drawn to the movement). 

“So you came to see me?” Hannibal says finally, a little _smugly_. 

“Just to get out of the house,” Will responds quickly. “After this I’d like to spend the rest of my heat...relatively in peace.” 

If peace is serial masturbation to badly directed porn while the dogs whine periodically on the other side of the door, that’s what Will is going for. He’s going to take the last few days where Jack isn’t guiding him around on a metaphorical leash and he’s not hyper-aware of what everyone’s thinking and feeling and saying and doing and spend it making his genitals too sore to use until the next heat.

“Peace is something men like us have in abundance.” Doctor Lecter is smiling, but it’s twisted, small. They go quiet together, and Will feels the question coming in the way Hannibal looks away, taps his fingers, wets his lips and inhales. He hates that he can only read Hannibal some of the time. 

“I am going to take a guess,” Hannibal says, “and say this is not a work related visit.” 

“Good guess,” Will murmurs in return, picking at his damp shirt. 

“I am going to take another guess, and say that your being here has to do with Doctor Bloom.”

Will goes tense on the couch, face twisting up. It all feels like an attack, especially the mention of Alana. Will feels like Hannibal must know, Alana must have _told_ him— 

“And how, _exactly_ —” 

Hannibal taps his nose. 

The anger subsides as quickly as it came, leaving him drained, cold. Guilty. 

“...I did something selfish,” he finally says, uncurling, looking away. “And Alana didn’t appreciate it.” 

“And she’s stopped seeing you,” Hannibal adds on helpfully, lightly, like it’s not _crushing_ Will. “You’ve been moping. Quite spectacularly.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. He’s unwashed, a bit sweaty, hungry, bags under his eyes. He knows he looks pathetic, he was just hoping it’d fly over Hannibal’s head. 

Fat chance. 

Smiling with his eyes, Doctor Lecter says, “Care to tell me what unforgivable thing you’ve done?” 

“I, uh. Didn’t take my birth control. Alana and I were...together. Intimately. I didn’t tell her until too late.” Will looks toward his feet, eyes downcast, the perfect picture of omegan supplication. 

Head down, jaw working back and forth, he continues: “It was selfish. And I’m still not entirely sure of my own motives, but...” 

“Your motives were clear,” Hannibal says. “You were trying to get pregnant.”

A beat. 

Will laughs, for real. It’s the first genuine laugh he’s had in awhile, so it feels good! 

“Uh, no, Doctor Lecter, I was not.” He laughs. He keeps laughing. He has to laugh at that, short panicked bursts of sound that twist his face into a humorless smile. 

It’s funny! Hannibal isn’t laughing, of course, but this is funny. 

Will Graham, Special Agent, pregnant. 

Will Graham, chasing after criminals in a maternity dress. 

Will Graham, showing up to a crime scene to deconstruct grisly murders, pregnant. Will Graham, leaning over mutilated corpses, pregnant. Swollen with Alana’s child and waddling around in her house with nothing but underwear and socks on. 

(The laughter hurts somewhere deep, right under his ribs, below his heart. It _jabs_ right there, every time he exhales.)

“I never said your motives had to be logical. A motive is a motive. And that was yours.” 

Will keeps giggling like a schoolboy. He can’t stop. 

“You didn’t want to lose what tentative grasp you had on Alana.” Doctor Lecter plows on. “And in your panic you did what felt best. You self-sabotaged—you weren’t even aware. Can you really be blamed?” 

That’s patronizing. Will shouldn’t be made to feel like a misbehaving _child_ , he should be angry. Furious. Instead, he’s swallowing real fear, the kind that makes his palms sweat and go cold. 

“It was an accident. I never—this was never planned—”

“Most pregnancies aren’t.” 

There’s a rush of indignant anger, a moment late, but still there—one that doesn’t fade even as Hannibal neatens his already immaculate desk. A rueful smile works its way onto his face. 

“Rather disappointing of you, Doctor, implying that I, an omega, would do something as desperate as knock myself up to trap someone with me.” It’s a jab, at least Will considers it one, insinuating that someone as refined as Hannibal would think so simply. He hopes it hurts (because he’s hurting, and he doesn’t know why). 

Doctor Lecter raises his pale brows. “Forgive me, Will. You misunderstand.” 

“There doesn’t seem to be a lot I’m misunderstanding, Doctor Lecter.” 

_The heightened aggression, the flush traveling his neck and ears, the baring of teeth under peeled back lips_ —he can feel Hannibal scrutinizing him, tearing his behavior apart and...is that amusement? Is Hannibal _tickled_ by his anger?

“In no way am I implying that you’ve behaved the way you did because of your caste.” 

A pause. Will can’t meet his dark eyes. 

“By merit of being you, Will Graham, you are manipulative. Much more so than you give yourself credit for. It has nothing to do with this.” He gestures to Will with a grand, smooth movement. “And everything to do with you being yourself.” 

Another pause. There’s no laughter just anger, bubbling right under Will’s skin. “That’s _abuse_ , I would never do something like that to Alana.” 

“But you have.”

“ _No_ it was an an accident,” he says firmly. “I never meant to-to drive her away like this. I was—things were working.” 

Will feels the prickle of scrutiny on him again. 

“You’ve done this before, Will.”

“Done what?” This was a bad idea. Will wants to leave now, just get up and walk out in the rain. 

“Because I can assure you, at no point in my life have I tried getting pregnant for the sake of saving a relationship.” Another laugh. This one is _bitter_. “I know we’re our parents, but I like to think I am not like my sire in _that_ respect.” 

He offers a tense, rueful smile. Silence from Hannibal, only the slow curious tilt of his head. He feels him file that one away for later. 

“I only mean to say this is the second time you’ve tried making a family of your own.” 

“No,” Will murmurs, immediately indignant, uncomfortable, panicked. “No, this isn’t the same as it was with-with Abigail.” 

“And why is that?”

“Because I wanted to _protect_ her. And-and if that meant assuming the role of her bearer than I was...willing to.” Will snatches his glasses off, furiously rubbing them clean against his shirt, just to give his eyes something to do—anything but looking at Hannibal. 

Those dark, deep eyes are going to be the death of him. 

“You were willing to assume the role to provide stability and comfort in your _own_ life. A hidden, selfish motive, no?”

Will chooses not to respond to that, whether it’s because he has nothing to say or because Doctor Lecter is right, he doesn’t know. Taking care of Abigail would’ve been a hassle. There would’ve been nightmares, trauma, backlash— 

But love. So much _love_. 

“It’s alright to be selfish, Will. If humans weren’t selfish they wouldn't have made it this far. Selfishness gives way to survival. And that is what we’re meant to do.” 

Will wipes his tired, wet eyes. He places his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, but the room still wavers in and out of focus behind them. His lashes are heavy with tears and his gut is weighed down with...something. 

Hannibal shifts for the first time. Will reads discomfort. “Why are you upset?”

“Because—I’m upset because I’m-I’m not at _home_ in my nest. I’m upset because I’m-I’m selfish and it drove her away. I’m—”

“You’re upset because that’s the truth?” 

“No,” he moans, covering his face, threading his hands through his damp curls. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Will?” Doctor Lecter moves from behind his desk, slowly, silently closing the space between them and— 

And...something. something in Will _lurches_ with panic, scrambling away, a primal thing in him is suddenly, cripplingly terrified of Hannibal. He’s weak from his heat, distraught, and Hannibal is coming-coming to take _advantage_ of him— 

He tries to fight the feeling, but he still wants to run, maybe hide, maybe-maybe— 

Bare his throat. Surrender. 

The feeling chills in his chest when there’s a soft (comforting perhaps, for some reason Will can’t tell) hand pressing down on his shoulder, thumb resting firmly on his collarbone, holding him in place. Will doesn’t look up from his lap, but he can smell Hannibal, coffee and pencil shavings… 

“Will?”

His scent is nothing like Alana’s smooth beta smell, not gentle like her’s, definitely not as subtle. This is—Hannibal is _alpha_ and the last dregs of heat lugging through his system make him _want_. 

“I feel...not good,” Will murmurs, shrugging the hand off. He does, really. His skin is tingling from the contact between them, prods of heat worming back into his gut. 

Maybe he should’ve double-dosed on the suppressants. 

“I have to go, Doctor, I’m sorry.” He swallows and grits his teeth, muscles moving in his jaw. Space. he needs space, and he puts it between them quickly. He doesn’t thank Hannibal, doesn’t offer him an awkward nod, or smile—he just hurries to gather his damn coat. The rain’s still whispering outside at about the same pace as it was when he arrived. 

He’s wet again. 

He runs his tongue along his lips. 

“Don’t be.” Will can feel the prickle of his eyes along his back. “My door’s always open to you, Will.” 

 

*** 

“Clear the scene!” 

Jack’s voice cuts through the chatter of Katz and Zeller and Price and all the jittery local police and about thirty other members of the FBI like steel through skin. They all fall silent because Jack Crawford is the boss, their alpha, and even the usually mistrustful small-town cops bend to his will. It was awe inspiring the first time, at least to Will, but at about the dozenth time? 

He sighs, a muscle working in his jaw. 

Will, for all intents and purposes, is considered his omega. Not in the traditional sense, not in anyway that implies Jack’s regularly bending Will over flat surfaces (the image springs to mind and he nearly gags, sour spit gathering in his mouth), but in the sense that Jack tells Will what to do and Will does it. Sure, he gets compensated monetarily for his efforts and there may be the extra pressure of people dying if he refuses to assist, but that still doesn’t change the fact that people are clearing the scene right now for Jack’s omega. 

_The pendulum swings._

_And you’re looking into a square of light, squatting in blood red poinsettias and watching the empty-nester beta putter around inside the safe, warm den, baking a turkey that’ll be dried out by the morning, after it’s left in the stove, after you’ve murdered her._

_You lurk and when her lights go out you slither your slimy way inside through an unbolted window, because they’re old, you see? And so is the rest of the neighborhood--everyone’s a retiree around these parts, old pilots, and nurses, and managers, and laborers, all content to spend their last thirty years in the bliss of domesticity in their safe (ha!) little houses._

_They're all the same, but not really._

_You are terrified. Her imposing husband is gone for the weekend, off to some festival in Richmond, and she’s left alone setting up dinner, setting up harvest decorations, neatening bowls of candy for Halloween next week. She’s under the impression she’ll live that long, so she must not know you’re coming to visit._

_Your palms sweat profusely, disgustingly, and you leave sloppy handprints on the windowsill, but you have to do this. You have to._

_The beta woman is soft and smells like baby powder, and there are pictures of her bright eyed children and stern faced husband on the walls, and she’s sleeping and you curl your hands around her throat—_

And Will swallows a wave of nausea, unsure if it’s his own or— 

_Yours. You, you slimy bottom feeder, you snuff her out while she’s sleeping so she doesn’t suffer. You do what you did to all the other betas, smother, choke, pin, hold—_

_So they can sleep, quietly, peacefully, as their bodies cool and begin to rot. So they can rest._

_Rest next to them, your head pressed against their still, quiet chests._

_A trail of dead betas along the east coast and you dream sweet and easy, tucked against your mother’s breast (almost, but not quite). This has something to do with her, your mother, you know. It’s there, right on the tip of your tongue, the edge of your mind—it has something to do with her as does everything else, your job, your crippling anxiety, your hatred for yourself._

_It’s a temporary peace, temporary for you because you hurt so deeply, so much, all the time, temporary because once the sun rises—_

Will swallows another lurch of sickness, audible this time. He gags, an ugly sound, and Jack, waiting behind the tape just outside the open bedroom door with the rest of the BAU, steps forward. Will puts up his hand, a plea for Jack to stop. 

_You realize what you did when the light hits their still, gray faces. And every time you can’t believe yourself. There’s shock, panic—you knock over one of her porcelain cats scrambling out of bed. You have to run. Surely one of those bright, round-faced children will be calling to check on her, then what? They’ll see what you did, you monster, you pig—_ >

Will heaves, a rush of spit at first, but then Jack is shouting for someone to grab a bag before he contaminates the scene. Because god forbid any of his concern come from a place of genuine care, or kindness, or concern for Will’s well-being. He knows that’s an odd bitterness speaking. Jack _does_ care for him in his own gruff, heavy-handed way. It's just hard to see if you’re not looking. 

He receives the bag, reaching out with a shaking hand just in time and he _heaves_ loudly enough for even Jack, a seasoned agent, to look disgusted. His gut is lurching, voiding everything he’s managed to choke down today and last night. 

There’s nothing particularly gruesome about the crimes, strings of elderly betas lying almost peacefully in their beds. No blood, no excessive defensive wounds, nothing. Nothing to merit how hard Will’s stomach is trying to turn itself inside out and then back again, all while taking him for the ride. It’s the culmination of all day nausea, that which is probably a result of eating so terribly. 

No one can live off fast food and questionably aged cereal for very long. 

He can feel Alana’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t dare look at her. 

“What did you see?” Jack asks, grabbing his stubbly, wet chin and tilting it up. Will turns away, wiping his face as clean as he can manage, spitting. He doesn’t need to be handled like a child. 

“A-A—a lot of self-hatred. He’s looking for...something in them. Someone. Killing them _makes_ them more like whoever he wants. It transforms them. And he loves that...transformed thing, whatever it-it is. He loves them so much, Jack. It’s why he sleeps next to them afterward and it’s why...” He falters. 

“Why what?”

“It’s why he feels so _bad _.”__

__And Jack, Jack who can’t understand how Will does, sighs with his whole body. He’s frustrated, of course he is. This isn’t the first time they’ve dealt with a psychopath positively _bursting_ with love for those they’ve killed. _ _

__Will clears his throat. “We’re-we’re looking for an alpha recluse, mid-forties, maybe later. A…‘mama’s boy’. Someone who’s had a caretaker...like this.”_ _

__“Dead?”_ _

__“Or something like it. Comatose. Im-impaired. Some way that prevents them from...rejecting him. He needs them to love him because he’s been rejected.”_ _

__Oh, there it is, another horrid lurch that forces his head back into the bag. His stomach feels like it’s trying to crawl its way up and through his throat and escape—_ _

__“Let’s get you inside,” Jack says lowly, placing a comforting along the nape of his neck. He really isn’t Will’s alpha, but it does calm him. It’s a point of warmth in the chilled house with everyone’s eyes boring into him, digging, prying, trying to find out why Jack’s special pet is having trouble doing his special little trick._ _

__He can _feel_ their smugness, their disdain for himself like it’s his own. It doesn’t help his stomach at all. _ _

__The next few weeks leave Will feeling nauseous to an uncomfortable degree. His stomach spends hours lurching and burbling only to give way and heave every once in awhile. Will takes to carrying around Crest and a soft-bristled toothbrush, just in case he needs to scrape last night's dinner out of his molars._ _

__Beverly thinks it’s a result of stress. She mentions sugar water once she notices the purpled bags under Will’s eyes, the sunken cheeks, the bloodless lips. It’s because he’s flat out decided not to eat until he’s worked out _exactly_ what’s been making him sick. She gripes at him the least and only means well, so Will takes her advice. _ _

__The sugar water, at the very least, gets calories in him._ _

__Jimmy bets parasitic worm, a little monster worming its way through his gut, feeding off of what little Will manages to choke down. He then goes on to list all of the parasitic flatworms he knows of, leaning over a gray corpse, both hands working in a pale cut through the chest._ _

__Brian guesses infection, and Will guesses he has money riding on that. To that, he receives laughter. It wouldn’t be the first time the three of them (four of them, counting Jack’s occasional wager) have bet on the mystery of the week, whether it be the killer or what Jack’s stewing about._ _

__As if working in the BAU wasn’t enough mystery for a lifetime._ _

__Jack tells Will to bunker down and pull it together, as if he’s not trying, as if he would love nothing more than to tear into a loaded plate of bacon and eggs or a club sandwich or something other than _goddamned_ sugar water. _ _

__Alana—_ _

__He doesn’t tell Alana. Any interaction they’ve had since their agreement fell through has been the picture of professionalism. And he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about that. Because he has trouble getting out of his own head (and that shouldn’t be a place he should be dwelling with such an oddball killer running around) he decides to do what’s best._ _

__He goes to Doctor Lecter._ _

__He’s the only person Will trusts has enough dignity to keep his gossip to himself. His friends (he thinks they’re friends, he’s never really had those before) are good people, all of them, but they do have a tendency to spread rumors. With the way his life is shaping up, rumors would be unwelcome._ _

__Will shrugs his jacket off and places it on the back of the fainting chair, his jaw working nervously. Hannibal’s office still smells like ink and books and alpha and _safety_. It’s still warm, welcoming as the weather chills. There are already Christmas decorations going up in stores, and it’s only mid-November. _ _

__“Hope I’m not interrupting, Doctor Lecter,” is their customary way of starting. Hannibal bows his head, blinking slowly like a cat in the sun, a near invisible smile pulling at the corner of his lips._ _

__“Of course not. Make yourself at home.”_ _

__Will smiles, avoiding Doctor Lecter’s eyes as always._ _

__“Not the greatest week, Doctor,” he says, reclining into one of the deliciously soft chairs. Oh, he could just _purr_. Between the horrible nausea and all the loving, but abrasive advice being shoved upon him, sleep’s been as elusive as ever. _ _

__“Talk to me,” Hannibal prods, keeping a comfortable amount space between them. His voice is quiet, lulling Will deeper into relaxation. He hums._ _

__“I think I caught a bug. Everyone’s betting on when I’ll drop dead,” Will murmurs, grimacing. Hannibal smiles._ _

__“So I’ve heard. And have you made an appointment with anyone?”_ _

__“By the time I _get_ the appointment it’ll have worked its way through my system. I’ll be fine.” _ _

__“And if it doesn’t clear up?”_ _

__“Then Bev cashes in and retires early.” Will offers a twisted little smile, lashes fluttering sweetly as he relaxes again. This time Hannibal laughs, a tiny whuff of a sound, quickly swallowed up by the plushness of his office._ _

__“You are sure this is just a passing bug then?”_ _

__Cracking one eye open, Will watches Hannibal toy a pen between his fingers, smiling to himself. Something about it makes him bristle. He feels a jab in the question, the subtext of subtext. He bites out a tight, “Positive.”_ _

__“Even ignoring the surrounding circumstances you still manage to assert the least likely reality.” Hannibal sets the pen down. “Now, Will, you’re a very remarkable omega, but—”_ _

__“It’s _not_ the least likely. It’s-it’s perfectly believable that I’ve eaten something I’m allergic to, or that it’s stress—have you seen where I work? I'm lucky I haven't keeled over dead yet. That-that's got to be the number one killer at the BAU.” _ _

__“Aside from getting shot,” Hannibal offers. “Or abducted. Both of which you have managed at least once, Will.”_ _

__There’s a beat of silence. It’s pressing._ _

__“You will find peace not by trying to escape your problems, but by confronting them courageously. You will find peace not in denial, but in victory,” Hannibal says in his low, soothing voice. Except nothing about _what_ he’s saying is soothing. _ _

__“It’s not denial, I-I’m just not willing to entertain something as ridiculous as…” He lets the statement hang in the air, incomplete. He feels Hannibal’s stare prickle across his skin. “I’m an unboned, unclaimed, male omega that spent _one_ heat with beta—how is that enough to-to—” _ _

__“It only takes once...”_ _

__“And this isn’t that one time.” Will grimaces, biting one hand, rubbing the fingers on another._ _

__It’s just that he can’t imagine, really imagine what it’d be like if he and Alana were to—_ _

__No. No, he can. And that’s the problem._ _

__He can see it vividly, perfectly. He and Alana with curly haired, blue eyed children tottering around, pulling on his pants for his attention, playing with the dogs. Alana kissing him, holding him where people can see because she’s not ashamed of him anymore. Their squat little house, a boat floating amongst the waves, idyllic bliss for the rest of his life._ _

__Yes, that’s the problem exactly._ _

__His eyes start to prickle._ _

__Why did he let himself think, even for a second—_ _

__“I’m not cruel enough to pass down my-my _myriad_ of genetic mishaps to some innocent child, especially if it's my own. If it does come down to-to— I’ll do what’s most responsible. I can’t keep my job and be pregnant. I can’t-I can’t _function_ as it is now—imagine if I had a helpless kid to look after too. It’d be disastrous—and how _selfish_ would I be if I tried?” _ _

__He’s left stripped bare by his own words. He thinks Hannibal is choosing his next ones very carefully. He’s sees the cogs turning and clanging amongst each other—but Will has no idea what he’s going to say next. Sometimes Hannibal goes from a book laid open in plain English to something so huge, so shadowy, so confusing that Will isn’t sure where to start._ _

__“Remember what I said about being selfish, Will?”_ _

__“You’re enabling me?” he asks in a very small voice, not far from hysterics. “You’re _enabling_ me, Doctor.”_ _

__“You say enable, I say assist. I’m merely helping you to reach the best possible conclusion for this situation.”_ _

__“Even if it means—” Will’s voice cracks, breaks. “Even if it means deciding my conclusion is the wrong one.”_ _

__“Whenever I feel like you’ve settled,” Hannibal corrects. “What kind of friend would I be if I simply let you _settle_ , Will?”_ _

__“A less frustrating one. And-and this is all riding on the assumption that I might be pregnant. Which I could very well not be.” He stops mid-motion, a pale hand hanging in the air._ _

__“Wouldn’t you be able to smell something like that?”_ _

__“In theory, yes. I do try to control myself in polite company.”_ _

__“Humor me—say-say I’m not polite company.”_ _

__Hannibal inhales a sharp, short breath. Will feels exasperation, fondness, “Will—”_ _

__“Please?”_ _

__Hannibal had called him manipulative before and Will had been so indignant about it, so offended that his...therapist—is that what he is? Doctor Lecter is crossing to stand in front of him. He’s so _large_ and Will has to tell himself, wetting his dry lips that, bottom line, this is his therapist. They may be friends outside of that, but their relationship is strictly professional. He has no heat to blame on his sudden wanting. _ _

__His selfishness? Is that what that is?_ _

__Doctor Lecter presses his nose into the soft, pale curve of his neck, close enough that Will is sure he can smell omega, the aftershave he uses, and his body wash, pollen from outside, sweat, ibuprofen—_ _

___Oh._ _ _

__Will feels surprise in the sudden tightening in the line of his back, the way Hannibal’s arms flex as he stands up. But why? His eyes are marginally wider under his brow, but still dark and impossible to read, like staring down two wells._ _

__“My apologies, Will—”_ _

__“No, I’m sorry, Doctor—that was...inappropriate.”_ _

__“Very. But what is a little breach of appropriateness between friends?” And then he smiles, slowly, tightly. Something’s hidden in that smile, Will thinks, but it passes quickly._ _

__“Safe trip,” he bodes Will, ushering him (rushing him perhaps, an unfortunate byproduct of being himself means that even with all his prowess and skill he can’t always effectively read social cues). “Please do call once you return home.”_ _

__“Of course. A-and—thank you, Doctor. Really. For everything. For...this. I haven’t been myself lately.”_ _

__Hannibal offers him another one of those tight, secretive smiles. Maybe it’s that there’s something sharkish about it, something predatory and distinctly alpha that makes it so impossible to read, but regardless Will feels a chill, like Hannibal’s foyer has a draft._ _

__“It is a _pleasure_ as always."_ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do i even begin to apologize for the TEN month gap between chapters omg?? life things got complex and difficult, to say the least, and mental illness truly is a bitch--but on the bright side: i feel like my passion for writing this story and writing in general is slowly being revived, so here i am! _please_ enjoy this because i definitely enjoyed writing it. and @ god please let the fandom be alive and well ;_;!!
> 
>  
> 
> vomit/emetophobia warning & warnings for discussions of abortion!

_ There is no point in using the word ‘impossible’ to describe something that has clearly happened,  _ Will thinks to himself, hunkered next to the clear porcelain of his toilet as his dogs sniff and whine by his side. Will remembers paging through that Douglas Adams book one warm summer, sitting in the light and enjoying the silence, the words on the page, and the peace. He’d taken it for granted, he realizes miserably, as his stomach rolls and churns.

He’d give anything to have something like that now.

The dogs can smell something is the matter with him although they aren’t sure what. All they know is that their food bowls are empty when they’re not supposed to be, they haven’t been walked, and their beloved Will is pale and quiet. They whine pitifully and curl in a heap next to his leg and he pets them, smiling.

With his long curls sticking lovingly to his forehead (he considers cutting it now, it is getting annoyingly long), Will stands to wash his mouth out. It tastes like vinegar and is thick with spit—and the temptation of four Advil and a shot of bourbon beckons to him like a siren’s call, but…

He won’t let himself think  _ it’ll hurt the baby _ . No, that would be a little  _ too  _ grounded in reality, and he’s comfortable with the strange level of disconnect he’s kept about all of this.

He wanders from the bathroom, drained and sweaty.

He didn’t need a pregnancy test, not really. After the vomiting hadn’t let up and his (irregular, but frequent enough) period hadn’t come it became glaringly clear what was happening to him. Why give himself the needless anxiety of peeing on a stick and waiting to see what he already knows?

And speaking of knowing, Will knows what he has to do, at least from a moral standpoint. Alana still makes him feel warm and safe, he still has dreams about her that make him wake up purring and content. She’s not a bad person—in fact, as much as it hurts, he knows how smart it is to not return his feelings, given how unstable he is, so…

So.  

The smart thing would be to call her before driving to her house with this kind of earth-shattering news...but when he picks up his cell he can’t bring his numb fingers to dial the number. He can’t just  _ not _ tell her. And he knows if he doesn’t just go—get behind the wheel and drive off without second guessing himself—he’ll never do it. Alana does deserve to know, even if she doesn’t want him. The child still is—

Oh, shit, that thought, _ the child _ , too much—he covers his face with his hands as he starts to shake hard enough to rattle his teeth.  _ Yes, the child, the baby, our baby, Alana. Our baby that I made by accident, I think, Doctor Lecter doesn’t agree. _

He can see her face now, her disgust. Her shock, maybe?

Her joy, certainly not.

He waits for the anxiety to let him loose before shrugging on his coat. As Thanksgiving approaches (and Will won’t even begin to think just how lonely this year is going to be without a family or a bottle to keep him company) the rainy weather has given way stillness and cold. He hates it—it always makes his depression worse and his episodes harder to manage.

And the best part? If...events keep progressing the way they are, he won’t be allowed to touch alcohol all winter! 

The bourbon calls to him again, louder this time, like it knows they’ll be apart for a long, long while. He grimaces, takes the bottle off his nightstand and places it under his bed. Out of sight, right?

Will’s taken to walking the dogs earlier in the day because, one, he doesn’t want them to get chilly, and two, because he’s an omega and night is generally off limits unless he wants to spend the whole time looking over his shoulder. He's forgotten today. Between voiding his stomach of what little contents it's managed to hold and being generally, utterly miserable, he hasn't gotten around to paying much attention to them. They trail him to the door, their nails clicking across the floor as they sniff his hands, curious at the lack of leashes.

“I’ll be back soon.” He bends down to fill their bowls and they surround him with affectionate licks and nips. “I’m about to go ruin my own life—yeah I am, yes I am,” he coos. 

“You’re in charge,” he says to Winston, who tilts his head to the side, watching him shut and lock the door. 

If his fingers are trembling so hard he can’t get the key in the first or second try, Will ignores it. He can blame it on the chill. The drive to Alana’s feels like something out of a dream—the roads are quiet and dark, and the warmth of car lulls him into some semblance of calm. 

His headlights throw crawling shadows across her kitchen and living room as he pulls into her driveway. She must know he’s here, right? He waits in his car for a moment, feeling the crushing weight of nothing. 

Should he do it like...ripping a bandaid? As soon as she opens the door— _ Alana, I’m pregnant, and it’s yours, and you need to fall in love with me so we can have the family Hannibal says I want _ —just like that? Or should he sit and explain things from the beginning? Maybe he could make a move, kiss her, have her touch him just once more (he shudders in his coat at the memory) and  _ then  _ break the news— 

No, god. 

Manipulative. Hannibal had called him manipulative. 

He manages some sort of smile when he knocks on the front door. The last they’d seen each other… 

Yes, he’d thrown up all over a crime scene. How charming. 

She answers in a peach robe, silk and tied around her waist. Her hair is thrown up sloppily and falling in gentle waves against her collarbone. He feels his mouth go dry. He can see the line of her cleavage— 

“Will?” Her voice masks surprise, but he can still feel it. She’s wondering how he can get so bold as to visit her at her home after their sort-of-not-really breakup. He would be anyway. 

“Alana, can I come in?” 

He watches her debate it for a long moment, chewing her lip. Goosebumps rise on her skin as cold wafts in. 

“It’s important,” he insists. “Really.” 

“Will,” she says again, warily. 

“No, listen, please.” He meets her bright, clear eyes. “It...it has to do with us.” 

Those seem to be the magic words, because she steps aside. Her home smells like warmth and beta and something so incredibly  _ her _ and his hindbrain is delighted.  _ Do you know where you are? _ it croons.  _ It’s your mate’s den, safe and warm, don’t you want to curl up and—  _

No—he smothers that thought as quickly as he can because Alana’s not anything to him, at all, not his lover, not his mate, not his—is she his friend? He has to ponder that for a moment. Maybe they were, but he ruined that, didn’t he? 

He feels like the fact that he isn't sure is a troubling thought. 

He seats himself at her kitchen table, drumming his fingers nervously. There’s a mug of tea and a book open— _ Last Night at the Blue Angel _ —so, that’s the kind of night he interrupted? It seems nice, save for the fact that he has no place in it. She joins him and they sit together in an awkward silence with Will avoiding her eyes. 

“You said it was important?” she says quietly, prompting him to start.  _ At least she has the decency to sound concerned, _ he thinks bitterly. Maybe he doesn’t have the right to be, but the feeling is still there. 

He inhales shakily and murmurs, “It’s about my heat.” 

Alana leans away, her warmth drawing from him like he’s standing back outside. Her mouth tilts and his stomach rolls uncomfortably. 

He continues, “Yeah, it—my…” And balls his hand up as it starts to tremble. 

Hannibal pops, unbidden, into his mind. How easy would all of this be if he had that grace, that logic, that control? If he were in Hannibal’s shoes he’d be mature enough to do the right thing instead of hanging onto this stupid dream. If he had Hannibal’s help… 

“I’m pregnant.” 

A beat. 

And Alana inhales. He wishes he could breathe, but unfortunately someone’s placed a tight vice around his chest. When did that get there? 

“Is it—” 

He interrupts her before the depth of his anger properly slams into him. He knows what she’s going to ask, unfortunately, and it makes his face flush in angry red splotches across his cheeks. 

_ “Yes _ ,” he snaps. “How could you even—”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Who else’s would it  _ be _ ?” 

Does he really give off the vibe of being  _ that _ desperate? 

(Does he…?) 

“Have you considered abortion?” she asks coolly, eyes wide. Her curiosity is clinical and annoying, probing him with all the tenderness of a scalpel. She’s waiting to see just how strongly he’ll react—he can feel it. She really  _ can’t  _ turn off her psychiatrist’s brain, he realizes hysterically, barely holding onto an outburst. Will can feel his heartbeat thrumming in his ears as he closes his eyes. 

Yes, abortion, the logical option for an extremely mentally ill, high profile omega like himself—and that’s not even mentioning how dangerous his job can get. He has a gunshot wound to attest to that. He  _ can’t  _ afford to take maternity leave and he definitely doesn’t have the skills handy to raise a child. 

She’s right, he knows it, they both do, but the cold, detached way she said it makes his stomach pitch again. He thinks almost desperately of blue-eyed, curly haired children stumbling around on chubby legs with dogs in tow, playing with flowers in the yard. His heart feels like it’s shattering… 

He really  _ was  _ hoping for the impossible, wasn’t he? In what world would Alana give up her job, her life, to take care of not only the kid, but him as well? The kind of money, and time, and patience that would have to go into all of that is… 

He shoots up from the table, fists balled, eyes hot with tears. “I have to go.” 

She leans forward and grips the mug, looking away. “Will, I’m—” 

“I have to  _ go _ .” 

Once he gets behind the wheel, the world starts to feel pleasantly detached. Where he’s driving, he’s not sure, but he sure is going there—and fast. Through his tears he watches the speedometer climb and considers just flooring it, driving straight into the dark until he hits the nearest vertical surface— 

God, who let him get pregnant again? 

When he comes to (because that’s what it feels like, a haze lifting from in front of his eyes) he’s sitting in his car, in the dark. His face is wet and sticky with tears and sweat, and his breathing is shaky at best. 

He’s crooked in Hannibal’s driveway. 

Then he remembers Alana, her beautiful, cold eyes—and that word,  _ abortion _ . 

His stomach  _ lurches— _

He rushes to the door in the dark, knocking furiously as his mouth fills with hot spit. At this point, he’s convinced being pregnant is months of throwing up with the occasional instance of real life here and there. 

When the doctor pulls the door open warm light pours out like sunshine. Hannibal stands with his sleeves rolled up, genuine surprise on his sculpted features. He must’ve been cooking, Will realizes distantly. He looks handsome with his head tilted cutely to the side. It reminds him of Winston, strangely enough. 

“Will?” 

He tries to respond, but a wet burp is all he can manage. He rushes inside into the alpha’s house, towards the kitchen. He’s been here once, but he finds the sink easily and  _ heaves _ over it.  

The kitchen smells amazing though! He wretches for an embarrassingly long amount of time. If his face weren't hot from vomiting it’d be burning with shame. 

Hannibal’s comforting, strong hands find his tense shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing and squeezing the tightness away.  _ He’d make such a good alpha _ , the omega in him coos. He swats the thought away annoyingly. 

“I just—”

Hannibal gently squeezes and he nearly  _ purrs _ . 

“You came all this way to vomit,” he teases quietly. Will leans over the faucet to rinse his mouth out before being led to a comfortable kitchen chair. His head is spinning, heart thrumming hard in his ears. He can’t remember the last time he ate… 

“I...I don’t know why I came,” Will admits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It-it was on autopilot…” 

He makes the mistake of meeting Hannibal’s eyes then, and feels the  _ visceral  _ alpha satisfaction blanketing him. Oh right, he’d almost forgotten. Hannibal is really good at disobeying stereotypes (Will does feel bad for thinking them, he swears), especially ones about alphas, except for the moments like these. The doctor’s gaze travels over his arms, up to his chest, his face. 

Will’s surprised at his own shyness. 

“Don’t you worry. I’ve got a roast in the oven,” Hannibal says. Will inhales deeply, the chaos of his stomach calming for just a moment. No, he still can’t remember the last time he ate, and that does smell  _ wonderful. _

“Eat,” Hannibal urges, squeezes his shoulder gently. “Breathe, calm yourself. I’m happy to have you, Will.” 

He scoffs. “You’re...too kind, Doctor Lecter. And-and I can explain  _ all  _ of this, I swear—” 

“Hush. We can talk after the meal.”

* * *

 

Will explains everything in a rush after gorging himself full in braised pork and au gratin potatoes with home-made gravy (but no wine for him, Hannibal had sipped something dark and rich and Will had been  _ so jealous _ ). He’s much calmer now that’s he’s fed, warm, and settled on one of Hannibal’s soft couches surrounded by blankets. The doctor had provided them without being asked to, wrapping Will to his shoulders in the best makeshift nest he’s  _ ever _ had. 

_ He’d make such a good alpha,  _ his head insists, louder this time _. Such a good alpha, look how he feeds you, it’s so hot how safe you are right now, he’d never hurt you, you should—  _

He swats that thought away as if it’s not his own. 

Will continues with driving to Alana’s, realizing the depth of the situation, the guilt, the anxiety, how she’d mentioned aborting it and how  _ sick _ it made him feel. 

“There’s nothing  _ morally  _ wrong with it,” Will says, with the  _ of course you know I’m not some kind of bigoted idiot _ heavily implied . He knows that unconditional positive regard is a part of Hannibal’s job description, but he doesn’t want his... friend? Hannibal is a friend, yes—he doesn’t want Hannibal to think any less of him. 

“I’m well aware.” 

Will fumbles, playing with his fingers. “It-it just...discomforts me.” 

“It conflicts with your ideal of having a family,” Hannibal corrects very matter-of-factly. 

“No, that isn’t—stop putting thoughts into my head!” he nearly shouts, voice trembling. 

Hannibal simply raises a pale brow. “I’ve done no such thing.” 

Will gives him a heated look from beneath the safety of his blankets—his nest. He feels Hannibal’s amusement again, exactly like that time in the office, so he’s sure this time that’s what it is. It irritates him that something about this situation is humorous and he doesn’t know what it is. It reminds him of grade school—years of people laughing at jokes he doesn’t understand.  

“Something funny, Doctor?” 

“Hardly. This is a very serious discussion,” he says, gesturing toward Will. “Do go on.” 

“I—sorry. Lately I’ve been…” Will makes an odd gesture about his head, twisting his hands. His face is pink with guilt. 

“Hormonal?”

“No! I—yes, I—” His cheeks continue to burn and he brushes his hair back. “Lately I’ve been...snappish?”

“Omegas in your situation—” Will is thankful that he doesn’t say  _ pregnant omegas _ . “—do go through a very intense hormonal change around this time. Although...I must recommend you visit a doctor to find out what’s normal for you.” 

“You’re a doctor,” Will murmurs. “And that would be assuming I don’t go through with...you know.” 

“Assuming you don’t, you certainly have nothing to worry about.” 

Will snorts. “Unless I find someone that’s going to have the patience and-and the money to help me take care of...this? I have a lot to worry about.” 

He feels a flicker of sadness then, not all of it his. He looks up to Hannibal. 

Those eyes—Will can’t place the color, not quite. They can be flinty, silver and unreadable, or golden brown with all the warmth in the world, or even deep, cold wells of black, but they’re always,  _ always  _ drawing him in. Hannibal holds his stare with nothing but willpower. 

“I should get home,” he murmurs, tossing the blankets aside. Hannibal stands with him. 

“It’s late, Will. I can’t let you drive back in the dark in good conscience.” 

“I-I don’t want to impose—”

“You’re never an imposition. Please. I have more than enough room,” he murmurs in a voice that leaves no room for argument. 

And that’s how will finds himself between the most comfortable sheets he’s ever slept in. The room is dark and cool, with long draping curtains over tall windows and walls of royal purple and golden sheets and pillows. He buries his head in one, his flyaway curls sticking up and out as he makes himself comfortable in his nest for the night. 

“I do hope you enjoy yourself. Breakfast in the morning,” Hannibal says from the doorway with the strangest little smile on his face. 

“I don’t know how to repay you.” 

“There is no repayment, Will. I only ask that you let me be this kind to you. Always.” 

Will watches him from the bed, brows furrowing. Before he can say anything, Hannibal bids him a good night, and shuts the light off, leaving him in blessed silence. With the smell of the doctor entangled in the sheets he sleeps the best sleep he’s had in weeks. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! enjoy this little porny thing. i can feel things about to get busy (christmas, new years, my birthday) so i cut this chapter in half!! here's to the next chapter coming bright and early into the new year!!
> 
> you all have a good one!!
> 
> edit: i polished some rough edges! happy spring, loves!

Will peels his eyes open when the first rays of light sneak through the curtains that morning. Blearily, he wipes drool from his face with the back of his hand and buries his head back into the pillows. As he slowly wakes, he realizes or once that he doesn’t feel the tug of nausea, or a throbbing headache, or the crushing exhaustion that comes with depression. Safe—that’s all he feels—without a worry in the world.

Yes, he’s in Hannibal’s house again. The realization comes in pleasant waves. He knows because there are no sweet little paws clicking across the floor or cold noses being pushed against his cheek or wet tongues slobbering his face. As much as he misses them, he thinks he finds this...almost preferable. Especially the smell… 

Oh, Hannibal’s smell—it’s  _ everywhere _ , sunken into the sheets and pillowcases and even hanging, suspended in the air. The omega in him is purring in absolute delight at the thought of being surrounded in in alpha’s smell, in an alpha’s den, with an alpha in the house, keeping guard over him as he nests, with their  _ pup—  _

The sudden rush of blood between his legs leaves him covered in goosebumps. 

Of course, it’s not Hannibal’s baby—he knows this logically—but the last few weeks have really raised the possibility of Hannibal  _ wanting _ it to be. There hasn’t been any push on Will’s side, strangely enough. Hannibal's invited him over countless times, fed him an equal amount of countless meals, extended his kindness again, and again, and again without the slightest hint of weariness or exhaustion. 

He drove Will to his first (very late, he’d been thoroughly chastised for that) obstetrician’s appointment, and held his hand as Will heard his baby’s heartbeat for the first time. 

That was monumental enough—Will hadn’t stopped crying for hours afterward, much to Hannibal’s amusement. He’d wiped Will’s tears with his calloused, large hands. 

_ There must be some kind of catch _ he thinks, but until it reveals itself Will continues to bask in the safety and comfort of the bed that’s not his own. With his eyes shut, sunlight fanning across his cheek, he slips his hand under his belly, past the elastic band of his underwear.

It’s been  _ too  _ long since he’s been this relaxed, clearly, because his body is  _ alight  _ the second he touches it. His fingers are practiced and warm, just rough enough to pretend they belong to someone else. And pretend he does, eagerly rocking down into his hand.

“ _ Yeah— _ ” 

His slick coats his fingers as he presses inside and curls—the noise that comes out of him is desperate and hoarse and he’s so  _ embarrassed _ to be getting off like this, in Hannibal’s bed in Hannibal’s house thinking of— 

No,  _ no _ —there’d been a boy in college he’d liked, an alpha named Paul that’d had a temper and a knack for picking fights and pressing issues until Will had no choice but to bend to his wishes. And he’d fucked like a dream—greedily and with his nails digging into Will’s thighs and the headboard slamming against the wall and Will’s cunt making wet, filthy noises until he’d  _ stuff  _ Will with his knot— 

And any other time that’d get him off just fine, but he sighs in frustration and repositions his fingers, brows furrowing as his orgasm slips just out of reach. So much for making it quick. 

He’d never fucked another alpha other than Paul. Everyone after had been a beta, or an omega like him (he was allowed to be curious, it was college after all) or casteless, which had been interesting, but— 

Alana? She had soft hands that’d definitely brought him to orgasm more than enough, and perfect breasts that he’d loved to lick and kiss on, and…she hadn’t wanted him, she hadn’t wanted  _ any  _ of him. 

To his great frustration, his orgasm slips away once again. 

He sighs into the pillow and breathes in the smell of  _ Hannibal—  _

Once couldn’t hurt.

He has to wonder at least how Hannibal would fuck. His body is large, wide-shouldered and powerful in a way that only an alpha of his caliber can pull off, but somehow still graceful—

All that lean, hard muscle being used to pick him up and press him onto his knees with his ass in the air—that makes the sense of  _ urgency _ come back.  

Yes, and Hannibal loved to eat, didn’t he? Will could sit on his long dining room table, spread his legs wide with nothing but a shirt on while Hannibal put his mouth and fingers to  _ work— _

“ _ Hn _ —” 

A late night in the office with Will’s legs thrown over Hannibal’s shoulders as he’s split open, hard and slow and deep, in one punishing thrust. The secretary’s gone home, so nobody can hear his hoarse pleas for more— 

Hannibal’s knot would be so  _ big _ . A knot as big as his fist, Will can feel it, how it’ll stretch him open, how much he’ll cum—enough to fill him—enough to make him pregnant  _ again—  _

“ _ Alpha _ !” 

He cums in slow, agonizing waves that make him draw up into a pile of warm limbs under the blankets. It feels like a  long time before he catches his breath, and even longer before he stops playing with himself in the afterglow. The covers pool around his waist as he turns over onto his back, letting the sweat cool on his skin. 

“Mnh…” 

His stomach rumbles. Hannibal had said something about breakfast, hadn’t he?  He glances toward the clock, then the door— 

_ Hannibal’s standing in the door.  _

The jolt of anxiety sends him sprawling upright, face  _ flaming _ red. He hides the offending hand under the sheets, wiping the slick off hastily. Had Hannibal seen? When did he get there? Will hadn’t heard him move at  _ all.  _

“I—” he starts, choked. 

“Breakfast is ready,” Hannibal murmurs. His eyes are unreadable, brown and practically glowing in the sunrise. 

Will feels himself shiver as Hannibal shuts the door.

***

“If you care to join me down here on Earth,” Jack says, ripping him away from the vivid recollection. The other alpha’s dark eyes rise from Will’s midsection as he clears his throat. Will flushes—yes, his mind had been wandering again. 

It’s been about three days since that little...incident. Shame keeps his cheeks burning a mottled pink. Will refuses to admit it’s because he’s been deliberately avoiding Hannibal. 

He crosses his arms over his front. “Sorry, I’m-I’m here.” 

“I need you present,” Jack says solemnly, with a touch of softness. His eyes wander over Will’s middle again. Will pushes a wild curl behind his ear, swallowing nervously. 

He’s wearing a gift—a gray fleece sweater that is no doubt expensive, fashionable, and functional. It does all it can to hide his slowly swelling body from prying eyes while at the same time providing a bit of Hannibal’s scent. 

(He refuses to admit he misses the full experience.)

Hannibal had spared no expense, and when he’d given Will the wrapped box as an early Christmas present he had said the color brought out the green in his eyes. Will had been afraid to touch it for the longest time—what had he done to deserve something so generous? Nothing, that’s what. He’d done nothing to deserve Hannibal’s kindness.  

Nevertheless, Will recalls the memory with tentative fondness—tentative because there’s still a chance there’s an ulterior motive, isn’t there? Hannibal  _ must  _ want something from him...

Dammit, his mind had gone wandering again. 

“I’ll belabor my point,” Jack continues, “I want you on top of this Will. This M.O. change has put an entire new cohort of betas in danger.” 

Will nods dutifully, quietly. Jack thinks it’s worse when people die around the holidays—it’s  _ always  _ a tragedy, but for some reason his sorrow is just that much more palpable... 

Will can’t imagine having to remember a loss every year the decorations go up. 

Just before it seems like Jack is finished with him, he says, “You picked a hell of a time for that…” while gesturing towards his mid-section. 

He  _ knows  _ Jack doesn’t approve (and that somewhere, deep down, he’s jealous), but...maybe his approval  doesn’t matter. Will allows himself to relish in that selfish thought for a moment. For so long he’d be Jack’s omega, Jack’s pet, Jack’s little helper, and now… 

And now, he was Hannibal’s, wasn’t he?

(The traitorous thought makes him swallow.) 

“Thank you,” he says carefully. He notes, oddly enough, Jack’s been the  _ only  _ one that’s been brave enough to say anything about (and he still has to brace himself before thinking) the baby, whereas everyone else seems to be holding off. Maybe Will is happy about that—he doesn’t think he’d be able to stand the  judgement of others on top of  his own self-flagellation. He has to wonder  _ why _ though. 

What would make them hold their tongues? He picks at a stitch in the sleeve of his sweater and ponders. 

He’s dismissed from Jack’s office with a gruff  _ congratulations  _ before carefully trudging through the gray, mushy snow between buildings to the morgue. The beta is laid out and waiting for him, gray and silent. He doesn’t bother taking off his hat or coat, but unlike him Beverly doesn’t seem to mind the chill. She smiles at him. 

“Same cause of death as the others—manual strangulation in their sleep—except…” 

“This one’s a lot younger ,” he murmurs, touching the purpled bruises on the beta’s neck. Beverly’s pushed the cadaver’s dark hair (he’s gotten so used to seeing white hair splayed out on the silver table) out of the way for him so he can see the extent of it. 

“Is her neck broken?” he asks, eyes narrowing at the odd twist he’s sure he sees. 

“Yep.” She pops the p, turning away to scribble notes about another corpse. “A little more gruesome than the others, don’t you think? Maybe this one’s a copycat.”

Will sucks his teeth. “No, this bruise ring is a lot wider than the others—look at how many other fingerprints there are—but it’s definitely him. He was...furious.” 

Yes, Will feels it welling up in him, frustrated desperation, the visceral need to see this one put out of her misery. 

But why?

_ He’d grabbed and held so tightly to her throat, even when her eyes had opened, pleading and wide he’d squeezed until a sickening pop had left her body limp. There was no tenderness in this one—no gently resting on her silent chest as he slept, waiting for the morning.  _

“Something’s wrong,” Will whispers. Beverly turns to him, brows furrowed. 

Gooseflesh rises on his skin under the sweater. He wants them  _ dead _ , all of them,  _ all of them—  _

“Is this a bad time?”

The voice slices through the tension like steel—and Will swears he’s so startled he sees the body jump too. Between reaching for the gun that’s not there and whipping around he loses his balance, and Bev bumps her table so hard she sends scalpels clattering to the floor. 

“ _ Jesus— _ ”  __

Hannibal is standing in the door.

“I brought lunch,” he explains, looking innocent as they both try to regain their composure. “Jack said you were down in the morgue.” 

Will’s face is on  _ fire. _ “Ah, thank you, Doctor—Hannibal, I…”  

_ Avoiding him has been for a good reason _ , he assures himself, even though Hannibal’s been nothing but kind, and patient, and the look in his eyes is actually a bit...nervous. Is he nervous, coming to seek Will out after being shunned for days? Will stands there, red-faced and silent, embarrassed at his own embarrassment. 

Hannibal sets the tupperware down on a silver, sterile table. 

“Homemade miso soup, with tofu and seaweed,” he explains. Beverly keeps her head down as she picks up the scalpels, smiling to herself. Will’s begun to notice that Hannibal has that sort of effect on people—on betas and omegas at the very least. Around him they all go a bit quieter than they’d usually be with Will. 

“I’ll—ah, let you know what I’m finished,” Will murmurs. He can’t meet the doctor’s eyes.

Nonsense.” Will feels his amusement tickling across his body. “Jack may be content to watch you work yourself to death, but I am not.” 

Will looks to Beverly only to find her  _ grinning  _ now. He has to wonder why she hasn’t said anything about the growing shape under his sweater. 

“Come, Will.” Hannibal crosses the room silently and places a hand on the crook of Will’s shoulder. Resistance doesn’t have any place in his mind when Hannibal squeezes, oh so gently, and leads him from the morgue. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! It’s been so perfect out y’all...since it’s been a while here’s a little refresher on my o-verse!
> 
> primary genders are the castes, either alpha, beta, or omega and they decide genitalia, with omegas having vaginas/cervixes/ovaries, and alphas having penises/testicles. betas are a grab bag, sometimes they can be intersex! secondary genders include and are not limited to male, female, genderfluid, and nonbinary. 
> 
> also! I went back and fixed up a couple things here and there in earlier chapters. nothing terribly major or plot related though. thanks for sticking the wait out and please enjoy this shortness before i get back into the groove of things!! comments and kudos are appreciated!!

Hannibal finishes his food first. 

With a tiny huff of laughter, Will notices he arranges his plastic silverware neat and straight, like it’s the real thing. Will just tosses his haphazardly into whatever dish he’s eating from—and it’s weird that he’s paying this much attention to Hannibal, isn’t it?

Weirder than that...Will finds it...charming. Hannibal is so imposing, even as he sits, with his broad, straight angles and wide chest and folded arms—Will knows how he looks in comparison: sloppy,  slouched, sleeves bunched up to his elbows, with his rounded shoulders and even rounder belly.    

(Pregnancy is nerve-wracking—if he sits up straight the shape of his stomach will press against his clothes, and the roundness there seems to have a magnetized effect on people’s hands. If it’s one thing he  _ cannot _ , it’s being accosted by curious strangers.) 

Hannibal wipes his mouth, and Will realizes he’s been staring. He glances away quickly, but knows he’s caught. 

“Will,” Hannibal starts, “have you ever known me to be anything but an honest man?” 

He glances at the doctor from under his curly bangs. He still hasn’t gotten around to trimming it; keeping track of the little details like haircuts has been  _ impossible. _

“You’ve never outright lied to me,” Will murmurs, pushing away his empty bowl. Withholding information for the sake of Will’s health doesn’t count. And there are things about Hannibal he still doesn’t know, sure, but everyone has their secrets. 

Hannibal sighs like he’s being put out. “Jack’s been overworking you.” 

There. All out on the table with the perfect plasticware. 

Will tips his head to the side and says carefully, slowly, “Jack needs my help. I can’t... _ refuse _ him because I made a mistake I have to manage. And I don’t...always mind the work.” 

Just on the days with the nausea, and the constipation, and the huge feet. So, most of the days. 

“I know you don’t mind. You’re a generous person, Will. And perhaps that’s part of the problem.” 

“People...people will die if I don’t do this.” It’s simple. If Will can help even one person go on to live their life, shouldn’t it make the discomfort worth it? 

“People will die regardless,” Hannibal says callously. It makes Will flash back to the times he’s felt another person die. There’s no such thing as just being  _ dead.  _ The dying part comes first—and it’s awful, always. He winces. 

Hannibal reaches across the small table to place his larger fingers over Will’s. 

“Your health is  _ paramount  _ now that you’re with child.” 

“...I-I would rather this than Jack treating me like I’m made of glass because I’m—...I’m not  _ fragile.  _ I know how to use a gun. And I’ve  _ shot  _ people before.” It shouldn’t sound petulant, but it does. 

“So I’ve heard,” Hannibal murmurs, smiling his way through a hidden joke. He runs his fingers over the soft skin of Will’s wrist, touching the thrumming veins. 

Will shivers. 

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. You’re mistaking my concern for casteism. I know alphas can be…”  

“Obstinate,” Will offers. “Tyrannical. Maniacal.” 

Hannibal’s smile grows with every word. “Ignorant to the wills of others is more my point, but yes. When I see bullying, Will, it’s my duty to speak up for you.” 

( _ For you _ —ugh, the color the flushes his cheeks is mortifying.)

“I appreciate it,” he manages in a choppy, quiet voice. Will means it, he does, even if it sounds like he’s pouting. Being cared for should  _ not  _ unsettle him so deeply, but it does, so he shifts uncomfortably under Hannibal’s unwavering gaze.  

(The thought of him writhing on Hannibal’s sheets springs into his mind like a flash of lightning.) 

“I should—uhm, I left Bev by herself, so I should…” He makes a motion that he hopes translates to  _ go. _ Hannibal relinquishes his wrist and Will is aware of the heat his fingertips have left behind. He barely manages to get his face back to a semi-normal color before returning to the morgue. 

As he steps through the cold threshold he knows two things: he’s woefully unprepared for ribbing of any kind and Beverly is definitely ready to rib him in any which way possible. She sets the scalpel down, grinning wide. 

And what does Will do, to his own mortification? He blushes—down his chest, his face, his ears, every sliver of available skin is  _ glowing  _ pink. 

“How was lunch?” she sing-songs. Some of her dark hair has fallen from her bun, framing her round face. Ugh, he wishes he could hate her for a moment—but he can’t. He can’t and he has to deal with this...teasing thing, because this is apparently what friends do. 

“Lunch was great. Hannibal and I spoke about...things.” 

“Hm, that’s specific.”  _ Tell me,  _ her searching look says.  _ You have to tell me.  _

He relents with a sigh. “We talked about Jack. And my health. It wasn’t  _ much _ —it wasn’t anything, he was worried.” 

Beverly is watching him with  _ rapt _ attention, her whole body turned towards him. The corner of Will’s mouth twitches. 

“He was...worried Jack was overworking me and I told him—” 

“He  _ cares _ ,” she coos, like it’s a damned movie. Will’s afraid he might just  _ die. _

“I told him it was fine, and it’s fine—it’s nothing and it’s over. Can we…?” He gestures to the gray, stiff body, sliced open neatly and grotesquely all at once. Will can see its insides, and it’s nothing new for him, but— 

( _ Birth _ is the thought that springs into his head for a microsecond—maybe even shorter—but he stomps down on it, hard. He doesn’t have to worry about it until a few more months. So he  _ won’t _ .)  

(He’s still torn between terror and fascination when his skin rises and falls from the force of tiny hands beneath.) 

Beverly places her mask back over her mouth, much to his relief. When she bends down, she murmurs, “Nobody asked me, but I think he’s good for you.” 

Will isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing.

-


End file.
